


Take Down

by blackchaps



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Blood, Deaf Clint Barton, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Present Tense, Scars, Schmoop, Shield sanctioned torture, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6781033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackchaps/pseuds/blackchaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye is a bad guy, and it's Phil's job to catch him. From there, it all gets confusing. Nick has all the answers, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Down

**Author's Note:**

> Work has been really stressful, so I wrote some fluff, which of course turned into hurt/comfort. I screwed around with POV on this one, just for laughs. I apologize in advance. Not a lot of smut here, hope that's not a problem. Single quotes indicate Clint is lip-reading. Thanks for reading!

********

It hits him hard enough to send him tumbling to the alley street, and for a split second, he lies there, stunned. He’d known he’d be shot, so it isn’t a surprise, and he’s been shot before, but in the arm, and that’s nothing like this. This feels like being run over by a truck. His vision narrows to the bow in his hand, and he knows he needs to get up. Run. And then run some more.

“Stay down!”

He doesn’t consider obeying, but his leg isn’t working, and he’s so goddamn tired. He’s twenty-three, and he feels like he spent every year of it on the run. Someone is always after him, for one thing or another. The Suit with the strong chin and thinning hair is just the latest in a long line of people who seem to want him dead.

He has one more second, and he shoves his bow down the storm grate that isn’t far from his nose. They’ll break it, and he’d rather lose it than watch them destroy it. A knee slams into his back, and he feels his left hearing aid fall out as his body bucks in protest. They were the cheapest ones on the market, but he can’t afford new ones.

“He’s armed! Don’t move!”

Putting his face down in the grime of a New York alley, he doesn’t struggle as they – the Suit must’ve had backup – cuff his hands behind his back and proceed to violate him with the most thorough search he’s ever had the displeasure to feel. They find every weapon on him, even the lock pick in his hair, before wrenching him to his feet. He manages to crush the hearing aid on the ground beneath his boot, but the other hearing aid gives up the ghost, dribbling down his neck. A hand scoops it up, and he assumes they’re yelling at him, but the words are muted now.

Clint’s not deaf. He just can’t hear well enough to tease out the individual syllables. It all sounds like wah-wah-wah, and he keeps his head down, in case they start punching. His leg hurts like a motherfucker, and he can see blood staining his jeans. That’s when he realizes they’ve cuffed his legs together at the ankle. He looks up, and the Suit is right there in his face.

His mouth moves and the low tones are barely audible. Clint easily reads the Suit’s lips, but he’s not answering any questions. He’s run his last mile, made his last escape, and there’s nothing to say about it. Two big guys drag him to the street, and they toss him in the back of a van without considering that he might land on his leg. His leg screams, and his vision washes out to gray before coming back. He clamps his lips tight around a howl.

The Suit is suddenly there, yelling from the sound of it, and he crouches down by Clint’s leg. From his inner pocket, he produces a bandage, and Clint stops watching because it hurts like hell.

“Next time, maybe, could you put a black bag over my head? I’d appreciate it,” Clint mutters, rolling with the waves of pain. He blocks out the hands on him, and he thinks of all the ways he could still kill the Suit, even restrained.

The van swerves, tossing him, and the Suit ends up with his knee buried in Clint’s stomach. Clint bangs his head, trying not to puke. Before he finds his breath, the van jerks to a stop, the doors fly open, and he’s being dragged into a building. There’s a very crowded elevator ride, and he could’ve hurt them, but it would’ve been wasted effort. They step out onto a rooftop, and only then does he think that maybe they intend to toss him, even though that seems like a lot of work when they have guns. Around a corner, and there’s a plane, or helicopter, or something, sitting there bold as brass with the ramp down. He thinks that he should fight, and he must’ve pulled his arm or something because a fist comes out of nowhere and crashes into the side of his face.

Someone is yelling, and the world pops in and out. He ends up cuffed to the side of the weird plane. His legs are hooked down to the floor, and he curls as much as he can, trying to breathe. The sound of the engines vibrates through him. He focuses on that, not looking at anything but the floor.

His breath comes back, and his head clears, and it all spins around to the pain in his leg. It throbs, peaks, and blurs out the world, leaving nothing but the truth that he’s done. There’s nothing for him beyond this crappy day. His brother’s dead. There are no friends, no family that he’s leaving behind. For years, all he’s done is run, and he can blame other people for putting him on this path, but it’s his fault for staying on it.

Blood stains the white bandage the Suit put around Clint’s thigh. Clint shuts his eyes and wonders what their plan is for him; a long interrogation, followed by another bullet, this one in the head? Or maybe just a cell, somewhere no one could ever find him, not that anyone would try. He knows that he doesn’t care.

Movement next to him makes him tense, and he waits for the next blow. If they want to hurt him, all they have to do is punch his leg. A hand – he doesn’t look – lands on his shoulder, and he shudders, not afraid, but people don’t touch him, unless they want something.

The engine noise changes, and he gasps when the wheels touch down hard enough to jolt his leg against the floor. He does nothing while they unhook him, looking down the ramp to tarmac. The smells of fuel and hot asphalt assault him, and underneath it all is the smell of the ocean. He’s on an aircraft carrier, somehow, and he wonders where they’ll drag him next.

The Suit does some yelling, barely audible in all the background noise, and one of the bigger guys shakes his head in disgust. Clint’s feet are still cuffed together, and he doesn’t try to stand. Someone yanks him up, and he feels the blood spurt as he passes out.

********

“Garrett was out of line!”

“And you’re not compromised at all.” Fury glares. “I should’ve taken you off this extraction.”

“Hawkeye deserves a chance, especially after Philadelphia.”

“Cheese, he did a good thing there, but a broken clock is right twice a day. Hawkeye’s broken, dangerous. He’s being shipped to the Vault.”

“And you can thank Garrett for that. I had a chance to talk him down.”

Fury shrugs. “And Hawkeye might’ve killed you while you were talking.”

Coulson puts his hands on hips. “You’re wrong, and I know how you hate being wrong.”

“Did you find who his contacts were in New York?”

Reaching in his coat pocket, Coulson retrieved a small item. “It’s not a comm unit. Garrett’s an idiot. It’s a hearing aid. A cheap one.”

“He’s deaf?”

“I asked him, but he’s non-responsive. His other ear didn’t have one.” Coulson tucked it away. “I sent a team to get his bow. We picked up his quiver at the scene. Nothing fancy, just leather and arrows. No cell phone, no tech at all, not even a watch. He’s twenty pounds underweight, and I accidentally bruised his kidney.”

“And you’re bitchin’ about Garrett?”

“All I’m asking is that you go see him.”

“Put away your puppy dog eyes. I’ll go, but it isn’t going to change his future.”

********

They’re smart - Clint will give them that - too smart to put him in an infirmary with access to any number of things that can be used to escape. Instead, they patch him up, use a gurney to transport him to a cell, and put in an IV there. If he wants, he can rip it out, but that seems dumber than usual.

The cell is three blank white walls with a bunk at the back made from steel and constructed so there are no legs to use as a weapon. No windows, and no light fixtures. The front wall is some sort of plexiglass with a sliding door. He hasn’t bothered to try it. Unless he has super powers, he’s stuck, and he doesn’t have shit, much less super anything.

After one look, he drags his IV pole to the corner and curls up on the cold steel. The T-shirt and sweats they gave him do little against the cold, but at least it isn’t raining. That thought flies out of his mind when the door opens, and one of the guys from the plane swaggers inside.

This scenario, Clint is very familiar with, but he stays down, refusing to look for words. The noise washes over him. The fists don’t. They stick.

********

“I noticed the paperwork for Hawkeye is going through,” Coulson growls.

Fury leans back in his office chair. “Prisoner interrogation and transport isn’t your area, remember?”

Coulson straightens his tie, smoothing it down. “Did you talk to him?”

“No reason. Garrett’s report made it clear that Hawkeye’s a deaf mute.” Fury keeps a steady gaze. “Tomorrow, he’s gone.”

“Garrett’s been interrogating him?” Coulson shouts.

“It’s his thing.”

“Hawkeye spoke to me! Made a goddamn joke while we were throwing him around like a ragdoll. Nick, give him a chance.”

Fury taps a few buttons on his laptop. “Here’s the security feed to his cell. He’s fine.”

Coulson stares down at the screen, seeing the curled up man on the slab. “That’s not right.”

“That’s him. He doesn’t move much.”

“I’m going down there.” Coulson stabs his finger at Fury. “Wrong.”

“Goddamn it, Cheese.”

********

He sees their shoes and legs before the door slides open from his position under the slab of steel. He’d crawled there after his last go-around with the sadistic bastard who enjoys hitting him. One of his eyes is swollen shut, but it feels better than the rest of him. He recognizes one of the pair of shoes. It seems the Suit is back, maybe to take a few shots of his own at Clint.

Hands reach, and he doesn’t fight as they pull him out, looking up to see their words. He just wants to know if they plan to take turns.

‘Get medical!’

‘This is my fault. Damn it!’

And Clint can see the Suit means it. He’s shocked, appalled, and for that reason, Clint lets them help him sit on the edge of the steel slab. He wraps his arms tight to keep his ribs from flying apart. “This hotel sorta sucks,” he mutters. He sees the surprise on their faces, and then the black guy begins to laugh.

‘You ever get tired of being right?’

‘You’re changing your mind because he has a sense of humor?’

‘You know I love a smart ass.’

Clint wonders what they’re changing, but being upright is making everything spin. He droops to his side to keep from sliding to the floor and shuts his eyes. Passing out seems like a great idea. He can dimly hear them talking, and he wishes they’d just hurry up and shoot him.

They don’t. There’s another painful ride to the infirmary, but this time they don’t bother to restrain him to the gurney. They also don’t seem to be in a hurry to return him to the jail cell. The Suit paces, not leaving the room, having a long discussion with the black guy. Clint watches him while the nurses and a doctor work over and around him. His leg is infected, which he knew, and the new IV no doubt has an antibiotic in it. They glue the gaping wound on his cheekbone back together, and he’s relieved they don’t bother with stitches.

A nurse wipes him down with warm, wet cloths, and it feels good. Painful, but good, and he can’t help but ask a question, making sure to pitch his voice low.

“Why do all this for a dead man?” Clint really wants to know.

The nurse flinches hard, meeting his eyes. Clint turns his head so he doesn’t have to see the answer. A sudden pressure on his ribs makes him clench his fists from pain, but he doesn’t move. They’re trying to help him, and he isn’t an animal. They must’ve thought otherwise because someone straps each wrist to the side of the gurney. He bites his lip, thinking a real man would protest, fight, but all he wants to do is crawl in a hole and die.

The Suit is suddenly there, very close to Clint’s face. ‘It’ll be okay.’

Clint stares into very blue eyes, not finding any words to answer him. Neither of them look away, and something sparks, deep in Clint’s chest. He should hate this man, but he knows he never will. The good drugs hit Clint’s brain, and everything goes fuzzy at the edges. All Clint’s life he’s been looking for a reason to live - a reason to get up in the morning. He looks far away into the Suit’s eyes and knows that he’s found it.

********

“He still out?”

“Fourteen hours and counting.” Coulson drops into an office chair near Fury’s desk. “The doctors say not to worry.”

“So you’re frantic.”

“Pretty much.” Coulson skims his hand through his hair. “What’s happening to me, Nick?”

“Well,” Fury drawls, “I’d say you found the one, but I’m never the smartest guy in the room.”

Coulson glares at him. “There’s no such thing as soulmates.”

Fury laughs, mouth wide in a grin. “Says the man who hunts down alien artifacts and captures enhanced humans.”

“That’s different. Those things make sense. A mystical soul connection between two people? No. Just. No.”

Still grinning, Fury gets to his feet. “Fine.” He pulls his gun from his holster. “I’m going down to the infirmary to finish what Garrett started.”

Launching himself to his feet, Coulson growls as he plants himself in the way. Fury smirks. Coulson blinks several times. “What the hell?”

“Give up, Cheese. You just won the mystical mumbo-jumbo soulmate lottery.”

“Shit.”

********

Clint wakes up, not sure where he is, not really caring where he is, except for one thing. He looks for the Suit. There’s no one, of course, and he hates that he’s bothered to hope. Pushing that aside, he stretches his hand until he can touch the button to make the bed go up. Once he’s a little more comfortable, he makes swift work of the restraints, using his toes on the first one. That done, he eyes the bathroom and decides that he’s going. Using the IV pole for balance, he gets there without too much trouble. His leg hurts, really hurts, but it’s manageable.

When he’s done, he washes his hands and checks his face in the mirror. The bandage on his cheekbone is itchy, and he pulls it off. The swelling is down, and he may have a small scar, but he wasn’t that handsome to begin with. Other parts of his body begin to complain, and he slumps, still exhausted. His stomach growls, reminding him that he doesn’t even remember his last meal, and he pushes open the little door.

Running would be smart, but there’s nowhere to go. He grips the pole and takes a shuffle step towards the bed, watching his feet so he doesn’t fall. A hand reaches, and he freezes in surprise, looking up. The room is full of nurses and what looks like some security guys. Fully expecting to be tazered and beaten, Clint finds he only has eyes for the Suit, who is reaching for him, hand stopped in mid-air.

Clint gives him a crooked smile and a shrug. “I had to piss?”

The room seems to erupt with noise, none of which he can decipher, but the Suit helps him to the bed, and a nurse circles to the other side. Clint picks up one of the restraints and hands it to the Suit, nodding that it’s okay. Anger flashes in blue eyes, and the muscle in his jaw clenches, and Clint waits.

“No!” the Suit yells, and he removes the restraints from both sides and launches them at the door. Clint stares in shock from having heard him clearly and the reaction. He’s not sure what to do. The nurse pulls the blanket up for him and reattaches a lead that he’d taken off.

The Suit breathes hard, staring down at him, but not moving. Clint doesn’t know what to say. Very slowly, he reaches, making sure the Suit can see him, and pats him on the clenched fist. It’s stupid. The Suit lowers his head, flashes a quick grin, and nods.

‘Sorry.’

Clint doesn’t understand, but he accepts it. “I won’t run. I promise,” he whispers, or he hopes he’s whispering. He means it. His running days are over. For him, this is the end of the line.

The Suit smiles. ‘I know. Rest. Get well.’

The nurse must’ve done something to the IV because drowsiness crashes over Clint in a wave. He shivers a little, trying to curl into a more comfortable position. Someone puts another blanket over him, and he’s out.

********

“Did he escape on you again?”

“He had to piss.” Coulson leans against the wall outside of Hawkeye’s room, taking another deep breath. “I’m not sure how he got the restraints off.”

“Used his feet.” Fury smiles. “Did you find the mark?”

Coulson frowns at him. “What?”

“Soulmates. They always share a mark. A scar. A birthmark. Something.” Fury is talking loud enough to be heard at the nurse’s station. “Did you look?”

“You’re making that up.” Coulson glares at him. “Have you been reading Wikipedia again?”

“Probably that scar on your ass, or maybe the birthmark on your shoulder.” Fury taps the chart, sitting in a plastic container near the door. “He’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”

“And Garrett?”

“Was following procedure.” Fury’s mouth twists, like he’s eating a lemon. “We aren’t nice to the bad guys, Cheese. That’s why you didn’t want the job of interrogating them, remember?”

“He beat a deaf man, and he tampered with the surveillance cameras. You know he did.”

“Glitches happen.” Fury ducks his head with a shrug. “He’s on my radar now. I relocated him to our South American office, just until you settle down.”

Coulson turns and goes inside Hawkeye’s room without another word. Fury waits a beat. “My money’s on the ass scar.”

********

The smell of food brings Clint awake, and he’s a little shocked to discover that he doesn’t feel all that bad, even his leg only hurts when he stretches. That shock is quickly pushed aside by full-out amazement.

The Suit is staring down at him, with something that’s clearly not anger on his face. Clint stares back at him for a long minute, trying to figure it out. When he gets it, he flushes. The Suit is hungry, not for food, but all he does it help Clint sit up and get him settled in front of a meal.

Clint glances around the room, making sure he’s not missing anything, or anyone, and spots the pile of paperwork and two tablets on a small desk under the television. It looks as if the Suit has been working while he waits for Clint to wake up.

Nervous at the watchful eyes, Clint picks up his fork to try the eggs. The Suit hovers, and when he reaches in his pocket, Clint tenses, but all he does is put out his hand. Nestled inside the Suit’s hand is Clint’s hearing aid.

Fingers trembling, Clint takes it and stares down at it. They know he’s deaf. They can use it against him, since it seems like they don’t intend to kill him. He sets his fork back down and takes a hard look at it, turning it, and he spots the crack. It’s broken. It doesn’t take much. They’re cheap, not sturdy. He looks up to find the Suit motioning for him to put it inside his ear.

“It’s broken.” Clint always tries to whisper. He presses on the crack, and the hearing aid falls into three pieces. He puts them on the food tray and grabs up the fork. His stomach is demanding he eat, and that’s what he does, ignoring the man standing close, even though he wants to reach.

The silence is awkward, and Clint’s relieved when he’s full enough to push the tray away. It galvanizes the Suit into action, and he seems intent on making Clint as comfortable as possible, even getting an extra pillow from a closet. Clint rolls his eyes but accepts it.

A nurse coming through the door makes them both flinch, and Clint makes himself small, trying to look harmless. The nurse smiles, but security is right behind him. Very quickly, it becomes clear that Clint’s well enough to put back in a cell. The IV comes out, the leads are pulled off, and he’s encouraged to use the bathroom.

Clint takes his time, staring at his tired eyes in the mirror. He supposes he’s up for another round of beatings, but he’d rather not if there are other choices. He tugs off the flimsy gown, letting it drop to the floor and squeezes into the tiny shower. The water feels good, but he’s quick about getting clean. When he’s dry, when he’s ready to be taken to the cell, he opens the door and steps out.

The Suit raises his eyebrows. Everyone else is gone.

Clint’s not body shy, but his expectations fall away to be replaced with doubt and a touch of embarrassment. The Suit points at the bed. Clint shakes his head, done with that. The Suit rolls his eyes and goes to a cabinet, pulling out a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Clint gets dressed, but he doesn’t rush. He babies his leg into the sweats before putting on the T-shirt. He catches the Suit watching and plucks at the front of the tight shirt.

‘One size fits all,’ the Suit says, tossing him a pair of socks. Clint puts them on, sure of his path through all this confusion. He’ll stay with the Suit.

********

“That was a dick move, Nick.”

“Did it show him his choices?”

“If you mean, is he following me around? Then, yes.”

“Good.”

“He owns nothing.”

“You love on-line shopping.”

Coulson hangs up on him.

********

The hallways are endless. The rooms are on the small side, and Clint can feel the throbbing of large engines through his socked feet as he trails after the Suit. The Suit makes a phone call between decks in the elevator, but it isn’t as if Clint can hear him. People pass them, but Clint is careful to stay out of the way. He has the feeling he’s not being escorted to the cell, and he doesn’t want to jinx it.

Sure enough, it takes a bit, but the Suit pushes open a door to a small office. Clint slips inside and shuts the door quietly behind him. The Suit plunks down at the desk and starts sorting paperwork and tablets, opening a laptop as well. Clint waits for instructions, but when none come, he starts analyzing everything. The Suit is organized, even tidy, and the small couch against the wall looks like someone sleeps on it.

Some paperwork dribbles to the floor, and Clint scoops it up for him, only glancing at it as he straightens it on the desk. “Agent Phil Coulson,” he says.

The Suit smiles and nods, and Clint can admit that it’s a good name. He scoots to the couch and crunches himself into the corner it makes with the wall. It feels safe. He finds a comfortable position for his leg and lets his eyes droop. A blanket drops down over him, and he smiles his thanks.

They call him Coulson’s shadow, or Coulson’s pet criminal. He’s sure there are more awful names out there, but he tries to avoid looking at people’s lips. It’s not like he cares. He has clothes, food, and a place to heal. It’s enough, for now. He’s good with faces. He’ll remember.

The clothes are basic black – cargo pants and a T-shirt – and the boots are a perfect fit. The jacket Coulson hands him seems like luxury, and he burrows into it, not caring if anyone sees him. The pockets are perfect for squirreling away fruit and bits of things that come his way. The food lacks in quality, but there’s plenty of it, and he’d never dream of complaining.

There’s an awkward moment the first morning where he thinks Coulson wants him to wait in the tiny apartment, but that’s not possible. Clint can’t do that. He’s not sure why, but he has to go with him. He follows Coulson everywhere, even meetings, finding perches out of the way, and he makes sure never to smile where anyone can see it.

Late, every night, they make their way back to the small set of rooms, and Clint feels out of place there, but he sleeps on a small cot pushed in the corner near the bed. He listens to nothing, relieved a small light is left on, and he doesn’t take off his clothes. He’s ridiculously glad there’s a door on the bathroom with a lock. It should’ve been weird, sharing space with a man he barely knew, but they make it work.

The black guy shows up again and again, and Clint snags the name from Coulson’s lips. ‘Nick’ or ‘asshole’ and twice ‘Director Fury.’ Clint decides to use Director Fury, if he’s ever in that situation. On the tenth day, a big guy outside a door stops Clint from following Coulson inside to a meeting. Clint is shocked at the panic that clogs his throat, but he’s stunned by Coulson’s immediate anger. Coulson drives the security guard back, and Clint stands right behind Coulson’s left shoulder for the duration of the meeting.

No one meets his eyes, and several look nervous. Coulson wears a tiny smirk for hours, but Clint waits until they’re eating lunch together. He taps Coulson on the hand, drawing his immediate attention.

“Why?” Clint hasn’t worn his aids in so long he’s afraid he mispronounced the word.

For an answer, Coulson extends the back of his hand and points to a small scar over his ring finger knuckle. Clint stares at it, not getting it, and then Coulson taps Clint’s hand. Their hands line up, and the scars match. They match. Exactly. Coulson smiles, like it isn’t the most horrible thing in the world, and Clint may have been raised in a circus, but he knows what this means.

It makes sense. The way Clint feels safe when Coulson is close. The way he never wants to take his eyes off him. But it hurts, too. Coulson never would’ve chosen Clint, not of his own free will. Clint nods, putting his gaze on his food and keeping it there. He eats, and then he cleans up for both of them, seeing words spill from a man’s mouth across the cafeteria.

‘Coulson’s guard dog is creepy.’

Clint keeps his eyes down after that, falling into step behind Coulson, and it’s back to the office, where there’s more paperwork. Feeling off-balance, like his thoughts are too big for his head, Clint wedges himself into a corner behind a file cabinet and rests his forehead on his knees.

He wishes he knew what to think, how to feel, and the less his body hurts, the more room he has in his skull for something other than pain. He hates that. It’s probably time to start running again. He’d sworn it off, but that was a days ago, and he always lives in the moment. Right now, he feels like getting the hell out of here before someone finds out he has a soulmate and uses it against him. Or his soulmate uses it against him. Either will be bad. He feels vulnerable, like someone kicked all the air out of him, but he also feels dumb. He should’ve guessed. He’s never been with a guy, or even looked at one with interest, but Agent Phil Coulson, in his suits, sorta takes Clint’s breath away.

In a good way, not like a boot to the ribs way.

Clint flinches when he feels the filing cabinet move, and every fiber of his being expects to be yanked up and thrown away like garbage. The Suit sits down next to him instead, forearms on his knees. Clint stares at him, unable to understand. Coulson says, ‘I’m sorry.’ And Clint doesn’t get it, and then he does. Coulson is sorry they’re soulmates.

Clearing his throat, Clint tries to sound like he doesn’t give a shit. “Me too, not like I wanted a government suit for a soulmate.” The truth is, Clint would’ve been grateful for anyone, but he can’t go where he’s not wanted. “Put me back in the cell, okay?” He sees Coulson’s expression turn from sadness to confusion to anger. Clint is very good at reading faces, and the anger drives him to his feet, trapped in a corner, breath instantly coming hard.

Coulson is right with him, almost pressing Clint against the wall. Clint can’t decide whether to look into blue eyes or focus on lips when the next words will probably be his sentence behind bars. He goes with the lips.

‘Hawkeye, no, I’m not sorry we’re soulmates.’

“You should be,” Clint mumbles, curling his shoulders and now refusing to look at anything but his new, shiny boots. A hand comes up, and he flinches away, eyes wild, legs seemingly locked into place. Their eyes meet when his chin is encouraged up, and he only just manages to keep from punching, flailing. Coulson smiles, not much, nothing more than a tug at the corner of his mouth. All the fear and panic bleeds away in an instant and Clint is left a little light-headed. He all but slumps on top of Coulson, who wraps him tight, and whispers, “I’m not worth anything.”

There’s a rumble in Coulson’s chest as he says something, but even this close, Clint can’t tell if it something about lunch, or a declaration of love. Both seem unlikely, but the arms around him feel good, and a force moves inside him. Not like that time he ate six bad hot dogs, but something warm and strong that makes him smile. His skin tingles, prickling up, and he breathes deep of the scent of him.

Coulson smells good, like soap and coffee, and Clint doesn’t ever want to move, especially when hands start rubbing his back. He doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him without violent intentions. It’s possible he groans, and Coulson flexes his hips, pulling them together.

One second later, Coulson is behind his desk, and Clint drops to the floor. The door pushes open, and Clint doesn’t question it, he hides, curling to make himself small. He’s tired like he ran a mile, and he struggles to control his breath. One thing he knows for sure, Coulson wants him, and that’s enough to keep Clint from running.

The back of his neck tingles, and he looks up into the one eye of Director Fury. Clint swallows hard, not sure what to do, like usual. Fury sticks out his hand, and Clint takes a deep breath before allowing him to pull Clint to his feet.

Fury rummages in his pocket while Clint stands there, feeling stupid, also like usual. He produces a small box and holds it out with a nod. Clint’s fingers shake as he takes it. He’s tired. That’s all. He opens it up to find an expensive pair of hearing aids inside. He looks up and frowns.

‘Take them. You’ll earn them.’

Clint knows he’ll be killing people now. A couple of pairs of cargo pants and three T-shirts are one thing, but this is another. This is debt, and a week ago, he would’ve made sure he’s getting paid and asking what weapon they want him to use. But the good thing inside him that woke up when he met Coulson makes him hand them back. Everything is different now.

“I ain’t killing for you,” he growls. He knows it’ll hurt like hell, but he says, “That cell will be fine. Bring back the ugly fucker who didn’t even ask my name.”

Fury looks around Clint to Coulson, and Coulson looks like he’s been struck in the face. Clint has screwed it up, but he can’t do anything else. Not now. Coulson scoots around the desk and takes the aids from Fury. The three of them are close enough to touch, and Coulson extends them again.

‘Please.’

One stupid word, and Clint’s will crumbles. He’ll kill for this man, and part of him whispers that it’d be in a good cause if it happens. Clint nods and sighs, taking his time to loop them over his ears, adjust the volume, and find a comfortable spot for the tiny plastic tubes that extend down into his ear canals. He makes sure the little plug is in place. Sound pops back, and he can hear them breathing. He dials it down a little more before nodding. “Good.”

“Hawkeye?” Coulson’s voice is smooth with a tinge of Boston wrapped inside. Clint knows voices, accents, because when he can hear, he listens closely. Coulson’s mouth twitches into a shy smile. “You can hear me?”

“That’s what the aids are for,” Clint drawls.

Fury laughs. “Smartass.” He put his hands on his hips. “The hearing aids are yours only because Coulson has a soft spot for bad boys.”

Coulson’s eyes widen and then he shoots Fury a murderous glare. Clint finds his hand is tangling inside his soulmate’s, and the touch is enough to calm him, make him strong. “I don’t want to work for you.”

“Too damn bad. You’re hired.” Fury grins and then strides out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Jerk,” Coulson mutters. He squeezes Clint’s hand. “You don’t owe us anything. We ruined your hearing aids. It was only fair to replace them.”

“Mine cost about thirty dollars.” Clint rolls his eyes. “I don’t even want to know how many thousands these cost.”

“Then I won’t tell you.” Coulson nudges closer. “I know you didn’t want a government suit for a soulmate. I’m sorry for that.”

“I’m not.” Clint can only tell the truth. “I was just talking crap because it’s going to hurt when you send me away.”

“I really don’t plan on doing that,” Coulson speaks quickly, like he needs to rush the words out. “Never did. I’ve been trying to bring you to Shield since Philadelphia.”

Clint can only stare at him. “Do all your new hires get the shit kicked out of them?”

Coulson flushes. “No.”

“Good to be special.” Clint thinks he should drop Coulson’s hand, move away, try to act like he doesn’t care, but his hand isn’t cooperating. Coulson rubs the scar they share on Clint’s knuckle, and Clint almost gasps at the jolt of pleasure. He pulls their hands up. “What the hell?”

“What?” Coulson’s brow furrows, like he’s confused.

Deliberately, Clint brings Coulson’s hand to his mouth. Coulson’s eyes blow wide, and then he shudders when Clint sucks on the small scar on Coulson’s knuckle.

“Oh, god.” Coulson seems to be having trouble standing, and Clint stops with a dirty smirk. “That’s. Not possible.”

“Seems it is.” Clint pulls his hand away now. He deliberately steps to the other side of the office, feeling weak in the knees and needing some space. He’s exhausted, and he’s done nothing today. He rubs a hand down his face. “Why am I so damn tired all the time?” he mumbles.

“Because you were shot, beaten, and starved. You’re about twenty pounds underweight.” Coulson straightens his tie. “You need rest and more food than you’ve been eating. The doctors told me not to nag at you.”

“Like I could hear you.” Clint crosses his arms over his chest, not willing to discuss his health. He was curious about a few other things, though. “That scar on your right shoulder? I saw it this morning when you were getting dressed. I have the same one.”

“That’s my birthmark.” Coulson sighs, slumping down on the sofa to stare at the floor.

“Oh, mine is a scar. My dad burned me.” Clint shies away from the sad eyes Coulson turns on him. “I was young. Don’t remember it.” He thinks maybe he should say something else. “You’re not mad? That it’s me?”

Coulson frowns. “I didn’t even believe in soul bonds until you came along. But, no.”

Clint hears all the unspoken words of doubt, disbelief, and reluctance. In his gut, he knows he’s not wanted, not really, but it’s okay. He’s used to this. He joins him on the sofa because his legs won’t hold him anymore. “Thanks for the aids.”

“You’re welcome.” Phil rubs his face. “I really do have paperwork. How about you get some rest? Go to our quarters, if you want.”

It’s easy to hear how tired Phil is, probably tired of dealing with Clint. A big part of Clint wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the day sitting by Phil’s leg and leaning into his warmth. The rest of him knows it’s time to put some space between them. Phil needs that. Soulbonded couples always spend their lives together, even if they end up hating each other. Clint doesn’t want that. So, he’ll walk away, and he’s careful not to look at him.

When the door shuts behind him, he leans against it, wondering if he imagined a small pained noise from Phil. Clint needs to sit by the door, wait for his soulmate, but he doesn’t. He finds the strength to walk to the small apartment. It never crosses his mind to go anywhere else.

The rooms are dark, and he turns on a few lights before pushing his little cot as far away from the bed as possible. Having sex with Phil would be fantastic, but he doesn’t ever want to come off as pushy. Tugging off his boots, he curls under a blanket that smells like Phil. He’s tired. He is, but the longer he lies there, the more he aches.

Just aches. Like after a beating by his dad, or one from Trickshot. He sticks his hands between his knees and tucks his face under a fold of the blanket. He’s fine. The pain settles a little deeper, and he shudders, not understanding. He begins to count his breaths, feeling as if his lungs might give out, and his body pushes his brain aside.

He has to find his soulmate.

Falling to the floor, he begins to crawl. His arms and legs aren’t working very well, and it hurts. The carpet under his hands feels like glass shards, but it doesn’t matter. He has to get there.

********

“Nick, something’s wrong,” Phil whispers, voice cracking into his phone. His hand is shaking so hard that the phone wobbles.

“Cheese?”

********

The door is just damn impossible. Clint can’t. He tries, but his vision is washing in and out, and he can’t find his hands. The only thing left is his voice, but yelling for help never works. He curls down into a ball and shakes, gasping for air and thinking this is a shitty way to die.

Something slams into him, and he curses, jerking and fighting when strange hands touch him. They don’t have the right, and he tries to bite them.

“Shit! Motherfuck! Get him to medical! Right the damn now!”

Clint is shocked he can hear them, and he knows that voice. “Please! Please!” He’s never begged for anything in his life, but it’s time. “It hurts!”

“Screw the damn gurney,” Fury says, and the big hands brand themselves onto Clint’s skin, even through clothes. Being carried like a damn baby should’ve made Clint’s pride die, but he doesn’t have any left.

“Phil? Phil?”

“Hush,” Fury mutters. He clasps him a little tighter, and Clint feels like he’s flying. When he lands, he’s on a hospital bed with Phil, who is groaning and rocking, curled up like he’s dying.

“Phil!” Clint grabs hold of him, needing him like a man needs oxygen. Phil stretches and yanks, burying his face in the crook of Clint’s neck.

“Don’t leave me. Please,” Phil whispers.

“Same.” Clint wraps himself around his soulmate, glad the suit coat and tie are gone.

“You two are idiots. You don’t stretch a new soulbond. I’m giving you both a week off. Move into new quarters, find Barton a few more clothes, and stop pretending this isn’t real. This is as real as it gets!”

“Can you make him stop?” Clint whispers in Phil’s ear. “Please?”

“Nick, go away,” Phil mumbles. Clint wiggles up enough to take off his T-shirt, so glad when Phil is touching skin. Phil mouths his way along Clint’s collarbone, and they both hear the door slam. “I did it.”

“Good job, soul circle.” Clint knows he’s being a sap, but he’s lightheaded from the lack of pain. Phil starts fumbling at his shirt buttons, and Clint helps him get it off and toss it. When their chests press together, Clint swears he can breathe deep for the first time since he was born. “I’m sorry I want you so much.”

“No, don’t be. I can’t, not anymore, not without you, Clint.”

They take a deep breath together, eyes meeting. Later, Clint will swear that actual sparks came off their bodies wherever their skin met, but Phil will roll his eyes and call him a romantic fool. Right now, Clint feels like he’s soaring above the ground and he’ll never touch down again. His fingertips never stop moving, mapping every bit of skin and peeling away clothes that are in his way. His breath hitches every time Phil kisses him, only twice on the lips, but so many other good places get a turn.

As one, they move together, fitting in all the right places, and Phil begins to lick scar after scar that they share. “Our scars match,” Phil whispers. “All of them.”

“I know.” Clint thinks it means something big, but mostly he’s sorry. “When you get shot in the leg, I’m sorry, really.”

“Shit,” Phil curses, not much strength in it. “Promise me you’ll pamper me?”

Against his will, Clint laughs. “I will.” And Phil does something with his mouth that makes Clint lose his mind, groaning and grasping for more. Phil does everything right, and Clint wants to do this for the rest of his life, nothing else, just this.

“Perfect,” Phil mutters against Clint’s hip, and Clint is glad he heard it. Maybe he’ll wear his hearing aids more often. Phil scoots up and kisses him while thrusting. Clint wraps one leg around him, keeping him close. Pleasure spikes high and hard. Breathless, he can’t stop moving and wanting.

********

Fury picks up his phone and glares at it before pressing the button. “Well?”

“I’m going to need another day,” Coulson says.

“Bullshit. Get your ass, and his, back to work.” He disconnects. “Damn slackers.”

********

Phil is putting on his tie, and Clint makes sure his hearing aids are properly seated. It’s time to go to work, or so it seems. He doesn’t wonder what his job will be. He knows what he’s good at, but he’s not worried. Phil will take care of him.

“Clint, you ready?”

“Sure.” They’ll stick together, no doubt about that. “Hey, when I see that ugly fucker…”

“I plan to shoot him.” Phil seems dead serious.

“Good enough.” Clint hears a knock on the door, and they go towards it together. An airman pushes a box at Phil, and he hands it to Clint. It’s big, long, and Clint frowns. “Not a bomb?”

“No.” Phil helps him with the tape. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Clint rips open the last end and pops it open, staring for a second and then pulling it out with a slight shake in his hand. “My bow.”

“I had it retrieved from the sewer, cleaned and refurbished.” Phil blushes. “Hawkeye needs his bow.”

“Thank you,” Clint whispers, feeling like he’s home with it in his hand and Phil by his side. He straightens his back and smiles. “Since I work for you now, I should tell you a few things.”

“No rush.” Phil herds him out the door. “We know everything that matters.”

********

The end


End file.
